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Byline: Sins of Reverb Buford Youthward stockcap@hotmail.com Despite the telling, the listener ultimately decides. Good, evil, right, wrong, apathy, empathy and all the drama and tragedy in between, the residual effects of an emotional outpouring are like twisted and delicious shadows sold on Fridays. Beginnings, middles and ends all matter. Non-linear input still arrives and populates context at discriminate times. Don't think your collage skills are so mad hot, they can be better. So some seasons stand in and seasoning gets applied, samples get sold. Like an imaginary burglar providing a bit of nice meat for the house dog, sharp kids stake out a dull life in order to find something soft and sinister. After the torchlight red on sweaty faces, after the frosty silence in the gardens, the reverb in the prisons and palaces, we can't escape the sense of place that informs us. The written word, the painted word finds its audience as its authors' moan, groan shift their bones, sing long songs, and listen for the glisten in the letters. With a second wind, the strong and weak deal with feelings of forced new chapters, the benchmarks of discomfort. I hear the story in the songs and letters, all fashions staging the heroes' action. Laughing, knowing all rock and rollers wind up pushing baby strollers, real life long term exposure. The poetry in the negative space is appealing while the positive composition is the basis for all judgment, criticism. If you encounter a concrete poem typographically shaped like a hammer using the words bam bam bam bam, you needn't bother read every single bam. Nor should you. Guitars, guns, dirt bikes and graffiti shaped my world gone mad, merging sensation and insight. We can't repeal original sin but only try to offset the copies. I sit tongue tied trying to decide what is more important, reading writers or books. The good, evil, right, wrong is meaningless. Intentions defunct. Write for the right reasons, in a way that is right and all will be alright. I've been listening long for that story. I'll let you know when I hear something. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Byline: Deep Breath Buford Youthward stockcap@hotmail.com Some things need saying. Not written out, but expressed in breaths. Disruptions erupting in far off lands become medicine for the media. But it makes more sense to hate on the megaphone instead of the messenger or the message. The too few with too much need to taste the stick the rest of us live with. It never evens out though. You can only and always trust yourself to lift you up or put you down. Nothing changes. We keep breathing. Love can kill dreams. We've all witnessed and seen it. We go on carrying away stones, building stone fences. The promises and compromises are just mortgage payments made on our hearts. And we keep breathing. The filling, the pudding isn't always worth a giggle. Karma redistribution provides a distraction for my detractors, cover for kings and maybe a bit of custard for the cunning. Still there's breathing. What is fun is not necessarily fulfilling. Paper-mâché puppets propped up, plop around like bags in the wind. It's easy to see the romance of personality cult, how the masses sick of bureaucracy assign allegiance to the single figure that cuts through the smog preparing a religion for the masses, a mass for the maligned. Yet we breathe on. The danger of extreme emotions is their ability to cause buckshot rampage or linear focus. The disgusted and demented find the arts too late or never make it to the library in time. Breathe. People that only hear what they like tend to like only what they hear. Which is a shame. Barometers of taste should move beyond prejudice. Just breathe. A new idea slapped on an old comic strip is an older joke. Freedom of speech includes the right to be silent, the right to experience the consequences for the silence. Try taking a bite out of crime but don't ask about what happened to McGruff the Crime Dog when he snitched. The unsaid truth, the reward that is the journey has a way of leaving us breathless. CSS is not allowed in this field and will be removed.